


‘I don’t seem to be able to -- remember. Quite. Where I’m supposed to be.’

by Crowgirl



Category: Good Omens (TV), Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: Conversations, Episode: s04e07 The Unicorn and the Wasp, Established Relationship, Historical Figures, M/M, Short & Sweet, blink and you miss it crossover, soft
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-09-04
Updated: 2019-09-04
Packaged: 2020-10-10 03:27:42
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,974
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20521181
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Crowgirl/pseuds/Crowgirl
Summary: A morning walk.





	‘I don’t seem to be able to -- remember. Quite. Where I’m supposed to be.’

There’s a thunderously loud noise -- like groaning and grinding and possibly tearing all at once -- behind her, but she turns around too slowly and -- impossible as it seems that something large enough to cause _that_ kind of noise should be so fast -- there’s nothing there, just slow swirling mist. 

She waits for a minute to see if the sound will recur (it does not), then turns back to watch the mist curl and wisp along the broad green path that leads her towards the hotel. She can see the building looming up tall and stony behind a fringe of trees. It’s too early for many people to be about; everything around her feels like the potential of a day rather than an actual day. 

She _should_ go that way, she knows, down towards the hotel where there are other people and someone may actually be expecting her, but she doesn’t quite want to yet. So she turns and walks along the footpath that first parallels the stone walls and then curves out among the hills.

It’s a quiet morning. Quiet enough that she can hear her own footsteps on the packed earth, the rustle of taller grass as she pushes past it. There are cows lowing in a field she can’t see and the distant sound of chickens. The morning is fresh and cool and she’s glad of the slightly heavier coat she has on -- although she doesn’t remember putting it on this morning. It’s one of her favorites, too, now she notices it. How had that happened?

Come to think of it, she can’t remember _much_ about this morning -- or the evening before -- or the day before that. She has a puzzled recollection of a large house -- a house with a parlor and people -- and there had been something terribly important going on, something terribly _urgent_ \-- but it must have been resolved because otherwise she would remember it, wouldn’t she? 

She follows the path. The beaten earth shows up well in the swirling mist; she has no idea if she’s going towards a town or away from it but there are coins in her pocket and if she happens to come across somewhere that will provide breakfast, that would be entirely acceptable.

Ahead of her, around a turn, she can hear voices -- someone laughing -- and she braces herself. She can’t simply avoid people forever -- although there had been other people, lots of them, hadn’t there? All very nice, of course -- they must have been.

‘Oh, good morning!’ And then there are two men in front of her against the background of fog, paused, like her, in a moment of surprise at finding someone else on this path: one short and blond, giving her a friendly smile; the other, tall and thin, giving her no expression whatever. ‘I hope we didn’t startle you,’ the blond says.

She blinks away the unprofitable attempt to remember. ‘Oh, no, not at all. I could hear you talking.’

The shorter man gives his companion an arch look. ‘Yes, well. Some of us are not as quiet as others. Beautiful morning, isn’t it?’ 

‘Lovely.’ She hesitates for a moment, then goes on: ‘Are you local?’

‘God, no,’ the taller man mutters and she notices for the first time that he has dark glasses on -- odd when the sun isn’t even visible but since she can’t remember how she got here, she’s not in any position to be critical. 

He looks familiar, too, she thinks, but that’s probably the solid black of his clothes. Clergy, presumably. All priests have a bit of a similar look, although she can’t remember seeing one before with hair of quite such a vivid flame red. The last clergyman she’d met-- But the recollection slides away before she can catch at it, leaving her with the vague impression that red hair and the priesthood do not go together.

‘Just visitors, my dear,’ the blond says and he’s dressed all in white, she notices, and in the style her father preferred when he was a young man -- waistcoat, bow tie, and all. That’s odd, too -- a bit like they’ve both wandered away from a costume party but, then again, everything seems odd today.

‘I don’t suppose you know the direction of the nearest town, do you? I’ve gotten a bit turned around.’ She waves a hand. ‘The fog, you know...’

‘We were just about to turn back ourselves,’ he says with a sweet smile. ‘It’s only about half a mile. Would you like to join us?’ He holds out a hand. ‘Ezra Fell.’

She takes his hand and gets an unexpectedly firm grip. ‘Agatha.’ She puts a hand out to his friend as well who hesitates for a minute, then gives her a very quick shake.

‘Crowley,’ he says and she gets the distinct impression he is not wiping his hand off only because she’s looking directly at him. 

‘I’d be delighted to have guides,’ she says. ‘I really am getting quite hungry.’

‘Are you staying at one of the hotels?’ Ezra asks as they turn back along the path and rearrange themselves: Ezra and herself first, Mr. (Reverend?) Crowley lagging behind. 

‘Oh, I--’ She pauses and tries to think. She must have been _somewhere._ ‘I -- I was at a house party.’ Yes, that was it. A house party. A big house -- something like her own -- but older and -- and --

‘And what a lovely time of year for it!’ 

‘Yes, there were beautiful gardens.’ She doesn’t mean to say it but she does and knows it’s right. 

‘Oh, well, shall we put you back on the path to your house party?’ 

‘No, that’s all right, it -- it ended.’ Well, it must have, otherwise why would she be here?

‘Ah.’ Ezra is silent for a minute then reaches out and puts a gentle hand on her shoulder. ‘Forgive me, my dear, but you seem a little -- lost?’ 

She tries to take offense but there’s something so very genuine about the question that she can’t. And it’s true: she _is_ lost. ‘I’m afraid so.’

‘Is there someone looking for you?’

‘No.’ Her husband _should_ be if there were any justice in the world but there isn’t and he isn’t. She remembers _that_ quite clearly. ‘No-one.’ She means to laugh but it comes out more like a nervous giggle. ‘I don’t seem to be able to -- remember. Quite. Where I’m supposed to be.’

‘Perhaps you’re supposed to be here,’ Ezra suggests and she notices by the cool feeling that he’s taken his hand off her shoulder. The sense of dislocation sweeps in again but it’s less sharp than it was before. 

‘Well, for lack of any other information, I suppose I am,’ she says and gestures back over her shoulder. ‘There’s a hotel. That’s where I started from.’ Had been dropped off. That’s it. Someone had let her off there. But who? Surely she would remember if one of her friends had brought her. She hadn’t driven herself otherwise her car would have been near her.

‘Perhaps you’re meant to be on vacation, then. Or visiting friends.’

‘I -- don’t know. What brings you here?’ 

‘An absolute inability to relax,’ Mr. Crowley mutters from behind her and Ezra clears his throat loudly.

‘A much-needed rest.’ Mr. Crowley makes a scoffing noise and Ezra looks up to the heavens for a minute, then adds, ‘Combined with a little work. I’m a bookseller, you see, and there’s a sale at one of the houses near here.’

She looks around. The mist is starting to lift, slowly, still hanging in thick shreds and layers in the air around them but there’s a brightness starting to come over the stretch of grass away to her right that means the sun is finally winning the battle. ‘It does look like a lovely place to rest.’ 

They come around a last turn and there’s the town -- or at least the outer streets of it -- laid out before them. They’re on a slight rise a few hundred meters from the first houses. She can smell smoke and dust and, what’s better, coffee and bacon. 

‘What would you know about rest, a--Ezra?’ Mr. Crowley mutters, catching them up. He has a handful of seeds that vanish into some hidden pocket before she can inquire about them. 

‘Just as much as you do, dear,’ Ezra responds and Agatha ticks a mental box. Not that it’s any business of hers, of course, but people are something of her stock in trade and she likes to have them neatly docketed so she can find them again. 

She looks around, scanning the horizon for any sign of the house she has an increasingly dim recollection of. It must have been nearby, mustn’t it? People don’t wander for miles and miles from house parties, do they? Something of her discomfiture must show on her face because Ezra pats her shoulder again.

‘Don’t worry too much about it. I always find things are harder to remember the more I think about them. I’m sure it will all come clear in good time.’ 

She wants to say something about how that’s the problem: it’s _all_ hard to remember and getting harder every minute but a crisp breeze slips past them and the morning smells of grass and fried eggs and it just -- doesn’t seem so important any more. She shakes her head and smiles at both of them. ‘Well, if you’ll point me in the direction of a cafe, I won’t inconvenience you any more.’

‘No inconvenience at all -- happy to help,’ Ezra says, before Mr. Crowley can say anything, and points. ‘Just down there.’ He leans in conspiratorially. ‘Be sure to try the strawberry jam -- it’s delicious.’

‘I will.’ She shakes his hand again and turns to his companion, but he’s kneeling by a patch of tiny flowering plants and doesn’t make any movement in response to her outstretched hand. He glances up just as she turns away and that momentary feeling of dislocation washes back over her, as if the world has just run backwards, because he is _so very familiar--_

But, no, she would surely remember anyone with hair _that_ color.

* * *

Crowley and Aziraphale watch her go, picking her way with increasing confidence down the path until, by the time she reaches the little alley that will bring her to the main road, she’s striding along like any other hillwalker on their way to breakfast. 

Crowley makes a faint _hmph_ing noise and turns his attention back to the flowers in his hands.

‘You recognized her?’

‘’Course.’

‘What on earth was she doing out here,’ Aziraphale says thoughtfully.

Crowley shrugs and steps in front of Aziraphale, carefully lifting the flap of his lapel to thread the miniscule bouquet he’s made into place. Aziraphale looks down and watches Crowley’s hands with a fond smile. 

‘Maybe she felt like taking a walk,’ Crowley says and pats Aziraphale’s lapel back into place. 

‘Mmm. There’s something very strange going on with her memory, that’s for certain.’ Aziraphale cocks his head slightly to see the flowers, then looks up and gives Crowley a quick kiss. ‘Thank you, dear. They’re lovely.’

‘She heard you say that, you know,’ Crowley says, turning and offering his arm in a gesture long outdated. Aziraphale tucks his hand in Crowley’s elbow comfortably and they start slowly down the path.

‘Heard me say what?’

‘You called me _dear.’_

‘Are you saying you aren’t?’

‘I’m _saying_ this isn’t Italy. You could end up in trouble.’

Aziraphale remains eloquently silent and Crowley snorts and lets the question drop.

‘She’s the third person, y’know,’ Crowley comments thoughtfully after a few moments.

‘The third person what?’

‘To say I looked familiar. Someone must be nicking my look.’ 

Aziraphale laughs and stretches up to leave a last kiss on Crowley’s cheek. ‘Never, my dear. You are incomparable.’

**Author's Note:**

> This is an absolutely shameless continuation of "[The Unicorn and the Wasp](https://tardis.fandom.com/wiki/The_Unicorn_and_the_Wasp_\(TV_story\))" from _Doctor Who_. If you haven't seen it, you should because it is entirely delightful.


End file.
